


Every Step That I Ran To You

by theatergay



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 06:55:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11526906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theatergay/pseuds/theatergay
Summary: "Race, c'mon. Look at me, okay? I don't know what's going on in that head of yours, but you've trusted me this far.  I ain't gonna let nothing happen to ya." Race hesitates, shaky and unsure. Spot stands on his toes, kissing him gently. "Let's go. You're fine. I promise."-Or: Race has a bad night. Spot can't fix it, but he can help.





	Every Step That I Ran To You

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Hozier's "Someone New". This doesn't get particularly graphic but it could possibly be a little sensitive so mind the tags.

The last thing Spot Conlon was expecting on a relatively normal Wednesday night was a call from Manhattan.

“Spot! There's a call on the telephone for you, Jack Kelly. Says it's important that he's got to talk to ya,” Blink says, holding the receiver. Spot gets up from his place at the table as quickly as he can without disrupting the whole group.

“Kelly,” he says, not wasting time, “what's you need?”

“Hi, Spot. We have Racetrack here, and he don't seem to be doing too great. None of us have been able to get him to calm down and we don't know why he's so scared in the first place.”

“Shit,” Spot says. “Is he talkin'?”

“No. He's not responding to nothing, we've all been trying to get through to him.”

“ _Shit_ ,” he says again, more aggressively. “I's gonna be there soon's I can. Just- don't touch him, I know that'll just make it worse. I'll see you.”

He slams the phone down harder than necessary and tries to find the same kid that passed over the call in the first place.

“Hey, Blink, you's in charge,” Spot says, crouching down next to him. “I gotta go over to Manhattan, if anythin' real bad happens here, call, otherwise I'm trustin' you.”

Blink barely has time to respond before Spot's out the door. He knows the way to the Manhattan lodging house well, and he breaks into a run as he reaches the Brooklyn Bridge. It's just over a mile and a half, and Spot doesn't want to take any longer than he absolutely has to.

He's sweaty and panting by the time he reaches Manhattan, and he lets himself inside.

“Where's Jack?” he asks the two newsies sitting at the table.

“Sitting room,” says one of them. Spot doesn't hesitate.

“Kelly!” he yells from the doorway. Jack looks up from his conversation and immediately moves, motioning for Spot to follow.

“Thanks for coming, Spot. I don't know what's up with him,” Jack says, taking the stairs two at a time. “I ain't never seen him like this before, none of us have, I don't think. He's just sittin' there and starin' off and not respondin' to nothing.”

Spot sighs. It's not good, but it's something he's handled before and something he can handle again. “Okay. You know how long he been like that?”

“Since I been back. He was doing the worst during supper, I think, just sat there and wouldn't eat nothing and acted real skitterish when it got loud or if one of us got too close. I tried to touch his shoulder and he hit me good, and I don't even think he was aware of it. We all tried to talk to him but Davey finally managed to get him upstairs and been with him since and then I called ya. I think he'd ‘a been fine alone but I didn't want to be takin' chances.”

Spot is silently relieved that at least there's someone else with him, even if they can't do anything about the situation. “Sorry he's hit ya,” is what he opts to say instead, figuring it's the least harmful response he's got. Jack shuts up and knocks on a door towards the end of the hall, not waiting for an answer before pushing it in softly. He lets Spot enter first.

Race is sat on the floor leaning against the wall, nestled between two bunk beds. His eyes are glazed over and he's staring emptily at his shoes. He doesn't seem to notice Spot entering. Davey is pacing anxiously in the aisle, and Spot can tell that it's only making Race more agitated.

“Can you give us some privacy?” Spot says, crouching down a few feet away from Race.

“Is he going to be okay?” Davey asks, stopping his pacing to look at Spot with worry.

“He's gonna be fine if you two go and lemme talk to ‘im alone.” It comes out harsher than he'd meant for it to, and Race flinches slightly at the volume. It causes Davey to leave without further prompting though, so Spot will take what he can. He gets up and locks the door behind them.

“Hey, Race,” he says softly, squatting down again. “It's Spot, I'ma stick with ya a bit. How's you doin'?” Race still isn't responding, but his posture seems to be less tense without Davey pacing over him. “Dumb question, yeah,” Spot says, “I know you ain't doin' real great. Can ya try to look at me?”

He reaches out slowly, making sure his hand is within eyesight. Race violently flinches when Spot touches his shoulder, but doesn't knock him off or try to escape. “It's jus' me, Race,” Spot says again. “I ain't about to do nothin' to hurt ya, promise.” He moves his hand slightly, now resting it on the side of Race's neck. He's sweaty but Spot doesn't mind. “You wanna look at me?” He moves again and pushes just firmly enough against Race's cheek to get him to turn a little, trying to maneuver him into making eye contact as gently as he possibly can.

It seems to work. Race locks eyes with Spot, and it takes him a moment to give any sign of recognition, but Spot sees something in him relax. “Hey, baby,” he whispers. “You with me?” Race nods. Even though it's barely perceptible, it's the most of a real response that he's gotten. “S'it okay if I's sittin' next to ya?” He gives another little nod, and Spot shifts and leans against the wall next to Race. He reaches over, still making sure that Race can see all his movements, and takes his hand from his lap.

Race tenses up at the touch and brings his knees up to his chest, curling in on himself but not letting go of Spot's hand.

“Still jus' me, pretty boy. Still promise I ain't gonna do a thing to hurt ya, okay? Jus' squeeze my hand if you's hearin' me.” Race does, even if it's small and timid.

“You's okay with me touchin' you? I's not gonna do nothin' that could hurt you, wouldn't dream of' it.”

Race nods into his knees. “Yeah,” he manages to choke out. Spot doesn't know whether he's proud of the fact that he's gotten Race talking or heartbroken by how scared and desperate he sounds.

“Okay, Race,” he says. He moves slowly, resting his hand on Race's back before moving up and petting through his curls. His hair is damp with sweat and Spot can feel how badly he's still shaking, but doesn't comment and keeps moving his hand through Race's hair, pushing back the strands that are falling in front of his face, comforting him with soft words the whole time.

He first notices the time passed when he realizes how much darker the room has gotten since he's been sitting alone with Race. It been bright with the evening sun when he'd gotten there, but now it's near completely dark. Race seems to have calmed down considerably, breathing having evened out and shaking significantly less.

His head jerks up when there's a knock on the door.

“Shit,” Spot swears softly. “Okay, Race, if I’m gonna get that I gotta be away from ya for a few seconds. You's still doing fine, I promise.” He's switched his attention to the door, eyes not quite focused but still taking in his surroundings. Spot clambers up less than gracefully. He knows Race would tease him for it on any other day, and it feels different without his smartass comment.

He unlocks the door and opens it just enough to stick his head out. “What, Jack?” he says.

“Sorry to interrupt you two,” Jack says casually, as if he hasn't quite possibly ruined all the progress that Spot had managed to make. “I think people is going to start heading up here soon, just to let you know. How's Race doing?”

Spot hesitates. “Better. Give him space.” He moves back to where Race is, overly conscious of Jack following him. “Hey, pretty boy,” he says, risking the affectionate nickname in front of Jack. “You think you's up to walkin' a bit and stickin' wit' me in Brooklyn tonight?” Race nods and pushes himself up, taking a few stumbles before he manages to find his footing. Spot moves between him and Jack and pauses for a moment. “You need a jacket?”

Race shakes his head violently. Spot shrugs off his and holds it out anyways, and Race grabs it. 

Spot pauses before letting Race leave, trying to visualize the layout of the lodging house.

“I think that you should walk on this side,” he says, holding out his right hand. “So you can be near the wall. Less people. Sound okay?”

“Yeah.” Race takes his hand, only to drop it and back up against the wall when he sees Jack.

It doesn't take Spot long to figure out what's wrong. “It's jus' me and Jack, Race. Trus' me, okay? He's not gonna do nothin', he's not gonna touch ya or get close or anything like that, okay? Still jus' me.” He finishes with a look to Jack that pointedly says _if you do anything I just said you wouldn't, I'll kill you._

Spot holds his hand open for Race again and Spot moves behind him, letting him leave at his own pace and motions for Jack to follow them outside. Race tenses up at the horde of people still downstairs and rushes out the front door, dropping Spot's hand once they get outside.

“You can go up ahead, I just need a second to talk wit' Jack,” Spot tells him. Race wanders off a bit, still within sight but no closer than he needs to be.

“Kelly,” he says, looking him dead in the eye. “Next time that somethin' like that's happenin' you's got to not wait so long to call me. It's only gonna get worse the longer you leave him like that.” Jack, surprisingly enough, doesn't argue.

“I will. Non'a us like having to see him like that and have nothing to do to help, anyways.” 

Spot wants to yell _this isn't about you_ , but instead just looks at Jack and turns back around.

Race is still hovering under a tree on the street. Spot takes his hand gently and leads them on their way, keeping himself between Race and the street.

“It's not too bad a walk, but you's tell me if you's wanting to slow down, yeah?” Spot says. Race nods. “You doing better?”

“I'm fine.”

Spot doesn't argue, despite the past few hours serving as evidence that Race is anything but fine. He's talking, which is the normalest behavior he's seen all day.

“Okay. You's tell me about it, if you wants. Don't have ta.” Race squeezes his hand and says nothing more.

They walk mostly in silence, and it seems to be going mostly fine until they hit the Brooklyn Bridge and Race stops dead in his tracks.

“I can't do this.”

“You's okay, Race. You got this far, we's almost there.” But Race is getting more and more upset by the second, his breathing picking up and starting to kick at the ground. “Hey. Hey, Race, c'mon. Look at me, okay?” Spot says, backing Race up gently across the rail. “Look at me.” He takes Race by the back of the head and rests his other hand on his cheek.

“Race, jus' listen to me, okay? I don't know what you's been freakin' out about all day. I don't know what's been goin' on in that head of yours and I know you's not up for tryna explain it right now. But you's trusted me this far, and we's real close to being in Brooklyn, and I know you's tired. I got you this whole time Race, I ain't gonna let nothin' happen to ya, I promise. You just gotta trust me a bit more, okay?” He brushes the light curly bangs out Race's eyes. “You's gonna be okay, Race.”

Race hesitates, still shaky and unsure of what to do. Spot looks around behind them for a long second, then stands on his toes, kissing him gently. Race looks a little shocked by Spot's blatantly obvious move, but no one seems to be coming for them.

“C'mon, Race. Let's go, we can stop again if we's need to.” Race is persuaded by Spot's gentle tugging him along. Spot waits until he's positive they're alone to wrap his arm around Race's waist, and Race leans his weight into Spot.

Spot manages to talk him across relatively smoothly, and they don't stop again until they're on the other side of the East River. “There ya go, Race, we's fine. Two more blocks and we's done.”

The two blocks feel like an eternity, but they make it. Spot lets go of Race, who immediately sits on the tiny lawn in front of the lodging house.

“Right. Stay ‘ere, I'll be back in a second.” Race picks out blades of grass, twirling them between his fingers before throwing them back down and picking more. The repetitive motion is weirdly calming.

“So,” Spot says a few minutes later, slightly out of breath. “I figure noise isn't gonna help you too much right now, so you shouldn't be in one of the bigger rooms, and there's not an extra bed in my room, but if you don't mind sharing with me.”

“Yeah,” Race says almost instantly. Spot isn't surprised. He holds out his hand and helps Race up.

“I'm warnin' ya now, it's gonna be loud inside, but we's only gotta be there for a few seconds.” Race wipes his hands off on his pants.

“I can take it,” he insists.

Spot is right. It's loud, enough so that Race is close to having another meltdown, especially with all the added attention that he's getting from being with Spot. He just grips Spot's hand tighter and lets himself be tugged up the stairs.

“Okay, Race. I got to go check in wit' the kid I left in charge, but you can sit down on my bunk if you want.”

It feels like another eternity to wait, but Spot comes back as promised. Race has settled down leaning against the wall, legs kicked out in front of him. 

“You's oughta get some sleep, you got to be exhausted.” 

“I don't want to be by myself.”

“Right,” Spot says. “If you give me a second I can get someone else to stay in charge tonight.” Race swallows and nods. 

“If it's too much tr-”

“It's not. I promise. Give me a second. If you wants to put on something more comfortable, I got clothes under the bed.” He slips out again, and Race takes the chance to put on a pair of Spot’s shorts and take off his shirt.

Spot finds Blink again for what he hopes is the last time that night.

“Hey, you's still in charge. Make sure people wash up and get to bed at a regular time, alright?”

“Sure,” Blink agrees. “Everything alright?”

“It’s fine,” Spot tells him. “Try to make sure that anyone coming into our room is real quiet.”

Blink nods and Spot goes back upstairs yet again. Race is sitting where Spot left him, but in different clothes. Spot unlaced his shoes and toes them off, tucking them under the bed. He pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it on the floor carelessly.

He motions Race under the covers and slips in next to him. It’s the calmest he's seen him all night, which he's thankful for, but he can see how exhausted he is.

“Hey, Race,” Spot says once Race has stopped fidgeting so much under their pile of blankets. “I love you, you know that, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Race doesn't say it back, but he wraps his hand in Spot's under the blankets, and that's more than good enough.

Race is larger, but somehow manages to cuddle into Spot. It doesn't take long before they're both deep asleep amongst the regular chaos of the Brooklyn lodging house.

Spot wakes up early to Race curled in front of him, snoring softly. He doesn't move and pulls at the tangles in his hair gently enough not to wake him. It's far different, he thinks, Race being so loose and relaxed compared to his anxious and skittery behavior the night before.

Race wakes up only ten minutes later, rolling over to face Spot. Spot smiles.

“Hey, Race.”

“Hi.”

“How's you doin'?”

“I feels like I slept on the streets. How's you?”

“Good,” Spot decides after a second. “You looks nice when ya's asleep.”

Race kicks him under their blankets. “Sap.”

Spot laughs, leaning forward to kiss Race's forehead. “You's not wrong, Higgins.” He pushes the blankets down and runs his hands through his own hair, fixing it as best he can. “You's up to sellin' today?” Race nods.

“I don't want to make you late.”

“We's fine,” Spot assures, dragging himself up. “You wants to come downstairs? You's free to grab some food if ya wants.” Race stretches dramatically and gets up.

They get dressed in silence, save for Spot’s teasing whistle when Race takes off the shorts.

“Fuck you,” he says, throwing the shorts at Spot.

“Tonight. You ready?”

Race rolls his eyes and nods. Spot can't help but keep an eye on him as they traipse downstairs. It's mostly quiet, since most of the newsies are still asleep. Race isn't reacting badly to anything, but instead smiling back at the couple people waving to them and isn't trying to melt into the walls the same way he was yesterday.

“So,” Spot says once they're in the kitchen, “you's doin' better.”

“Do we's got to talk about this here?” Spot grins.

“We's gonna go get breakfast, on me,” he decides. “We's gonna wait till the afternoon pape is out, and I'll be buyin' it for ya.”

Race opens his mouth to argue, but Spot cuts him off. “Don't worry about it. I's got you.” The two leave amongst choruses of “bye, Spot!” and “let us know if it's a good one!”

They make the short walk to the diner and sit, each ordering a coffee.

“You owes me an explanation for yesterday,” Spot says eventually. “I ain't gonna be mad, no matter what, but you needs to tell me when you's not doin' well, Race.”

Race shrugs. “Bad day selling, everything felt off. When I got home in Manhattan I stopped being able to recognize people and kept thinkin' that I wasn't real, and you were all tryna hurt me. I couldn't feel nothin' like normal.”

“You knows we wouldn't, Race.”

“I know that right now, it didn't feel like that last night.”

“Come to me sooner next time. When you's selling and everything feels off come to me, don't wait so long. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Race agrees, even if it's just to get Spot to back down. “Sorry.”

Spot nudges him under the counter. “Don't apologize. You's fine. I'm glad you're doing better.”

Race takes another sip of the coffee. “Love you, Spot,” he whispers.

“Hey.” Spot reaches over and squeezes his hand. “You too.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is pure projecting that I wrote in two days in class and I never expected it to see the outside of a GoogleDocs folder. I'm super hesitant to post this since it's the first I've shared my writing outside aside from friends and classes and I more than welcome criticism/advice! I doubt the characterization in this (it's so hard to write intentionally out of character while staying true to their personality and mannerisms) but I tried. If I get hits/kudos/comments/that cool jazz I may post more stuff in the future.  
> Huge thank you to Val (@poor_guys_headisspinning) for encouraging me to post this, check out their work because it's absolutely phenomenal! I also exist over on tumblr at theatergayy.tumblr.com


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